Chris Grabenstein - Whack A Mole

Exit 80 on the Garden State Parkway.

That's when Ceepak finally says something.

“Can you drop me off at the animal shelter?”

“Sure.”

“Rita is meeting me there. Fourteen hundred hours.”

“No problem.”

Two weeks ago we collared this dog. A stray. You might be surprised how many families come down the shore with their four-legged friends, decide they're sick and tired of scooping up poop, and set their beloved pets free.

Of course, it's against the posted regulations and all sorts of municipal ordinances to have doggy scavengers running around loose on the beach, begging at every umbrella for Pringles or the last licks on a Fudgsicle. Eventually, somebody notices and calls the cops. With the help of a long, looped pole, we eventually nab the perp.

Ceepak, however, is the only cop who actually visits his prisoners at the South Shore Animal Shelter in Avondale. He even gave this one particular pooch a name: Barkley. He said it's a classic. Maybe. I thought Fido was the only classic dog name. Or Rover.

Anyhow, before we left the A amp;P in Edison, Ceepak had gone back inside to buy a foil pouch of Pupperonis. I figure he's thinking about Barkley the Dog right now so he can stop thinking about Lisa the Runaway and her miserable-excuse-for-a-mother who couldn't be bothered with filling out a missing person report on her only child because she was busy with her “own shit.” Ceepak can actually help the stray dog. It's doubtful whether he or anybody else can help Lisa DeFranco, who must be fortysomething years old by now and is probably living someplace in Florida or Texas.

I ease on the brakes. We're inching closer to the shore exits, so the Garden State Parkway automatically turns into a two-lane parking lot. Suddenly we're not moving.

“A/C good?” I ask.

“Fine.”

I used to drive around in a white minivan that I purchased secondhand from my mom. (She cut me an okay deal on it when she and Dad retired to Arizona, but I had to haggle.) Once I started pulling down a regular paycheck, I decided it was time to trade up. Now I've got a used Jeep Wrangler. It's a good beach vehicle. Not that I've ever driven it on one. That would be against the law, and since I'm now a cop, I'd have to write myself a ticket.

The traffic starts moving again. We're doing at least five, maybe ten miles per hour.

“Next weekend will be worse.” This from Ceepak.

“Yup,” I agree. Because of the sand castle contest.

“We can handle it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I hear the pro team from San Diego's going to build the Sphinx.”

Bizarre but true.

There are actually sand professionals who tour the country competing against each other for cash prizes in “sand carving” contests. This summer, Sea Haven is sponsoring its first one ever. Next weekend. The town fathers hope it'll bump up business in the middle of July, which happens to be when business is already insane. In a beach resort, you make ninety percent of your money in June, July, and August. So you need to keep coming up with new schemes for cashing in while the sun still shines, because after Labor Day the kids go back to school and their parents stay home with the ATM cards.

We finally pull into the shelter lot at 3:30-an hour and a half behind schedule. The lovely Rita is waiting for us.

Ceepak sees her and smiles.

She's got on the white blouse and black pants she wears to work the Sunday brunch shift at Morgan's Surf and Turf. It's a five-days-a week gig for her. Weekdays, she works at a bank. She holds down the two jobs because she's had to raise her son, T. J., all by herself.

T. J., now sixteen, helps out with their finances. He works on the boardwalk and at Burger King. This Ceepak-financed two-week trip to his aunt's is the longest vacation the kid's ever had.

“Say ‘hi’ to Barkley for me,” I say.

“Will do. See you tomorrow.”

“Sorry how the trip turned out.”

He looks at me. Nods.

“Me, too.”

“Hey, Danny!” Rita hollers and waves.

“Hey!” I holler back. “You guys have fun. Pet a dog for me!”

Technically, they call this cinderblock building an animal shelter, but I'll bet the dogs inside call it the pound or the joint or the big house or something worse. They don't want to be here. They miss their people-even the lousy bums who abandoned them

That's what we figure happened to Barkley.

Ceepak and I found him without a collar, hiding underneath the boardwalk. When we crawled in to fetch him, he immediately started sniffing Ceepak's cargo pants, because my partner always carries dog treats in one of the pockets. My dad did the same thing. He was a USPS letter carrier. Treats in one pocket, mace in the other.

Barkley's sort of shaggy. Got the white whiskers, droopy tail, and hind-leg shuffle you see on old dogs. But he also has this twinkle in his eyes, especially when he smells Pupperonis or Snausages.

Ceepak gives Rita a quick kiss and then, holding hands, they head in to visit the dog nobody else has any use for today. I wave goodbye, but they don't see it. The fact that I'm kind of a lonely stray myself these days doesn't occur to them. But that's cool. Sure, my apartment is filthy, but at least it's not a cage.

Dogs are kept here for two weeks, in hopes that their owners will come claim them. After that, they go up for adoption. If no one wants an old, shedding bed-hog who probably farts, well, I don't know what happens.

I'm pretty sure they don't set the dogs free.

Man-this is turning into one of the most depressing Sundays ever.

I head toward the causeway-the long bridge that's the only way on or off the barrier island we call Sea Haven Township.

I wonder how many hours it'll take to drive the final five miles home.

I catch a break.

Traffic's not that bad. Of course, it's almost four o'clock, so anybody who wanted to soak up some sun has already squeezed their way across the bridge.

My cell phone chirps.

Since I'm only doing about twenty miles per hour and Ceepak is no longer sitting next to me, I go ahead and answer it, even though I know it's against the law in New Jersey to drive and talk. On the phone, I mean. You can talk to other people in the car.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Danny! Where are you?”

It's my buddy Jess.

“Crawling toward the causeway.”

“Cool. Head over to The Sand Bar.”

“Why?”

“Olivia's here.”

Jess and Olivia have been together for about two years. They're getting married next Christmas.

“And?” I know there's got to be more.

“Aubrey's here, too. By herself. Looking totally hot.”

Aubrey is a long-limbed beauty who waitresses at a greasy pit of a restaurant called The Rusty Scupper. Ever since Katie left, Jess and Olivia have been trying to fix me up with somebody. Anybody.

“She's out of my league, bro,” I say and maneuver into the right-hand lane.

“Dude? She asked us about you.”

“Seriously?”

“Totally. She said, ‘Where's Danny?’”

“No way.”

“Way. Come on, man. You gotta climb back on that bicycle.”

He means horse. I think the bicycle is the thing you never forget how to do. The horse is the thing that throws you for a loop but you have to climb back on anyway. I think Katie is more of a horse than a bicycle.

“You out on the deck?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“I'll swing by.”

“Excellent. We'll alert Aubrey.”

I snap the cell shut and toss it onto the passenger seat.

For some reason, traffic slows down right before the causeway and then it speeds back up again. Probably some sort of rubbernecking delay. I hope nobody's had an accident. Could be an overheated radiator. Maybe a flat tire. I'll check it out, see if I can help. Hey, a cop is never really off duty. Ceepak tells me that, all the time.